The uneasy silence of the night was broken by the impact of a thick leather boot on the heavy wood of an old church door. The door shuddered and creaked slowly inward, but was otherwise unchanged by the abuse.
Faint streams of silvery moonlight danced over the stone entryway just beyond the door, but failed to illuminate any further within. There was a long, ragged, drawing of breath and the wearer of those well-traveled boots cautiously entered the forgotten church.
His name was William. He was 18 and barely a man. A Knight of the Holy Order, though not much of one. Not yet. He had not spoken the vow that would bind his life to service and had fled his training in the depth of night. Still, though he was untested in bloodshed, the long iron blade in his hand gleamed with a keen edge and the clanking iron plates of his armor did little to encumber him. He was broad in chest and shoulders, arms thick from the rough labors of early years as a farm boy. Locks of curled blonde hair stuck from under his leather cap at unruly angles. The lantern in his left hand was steady as he took his first steps into the darkness which refused to yield.
The church foyer was massive, stretching out around and above him, the steep sloped roof resting on tall stone columns. It was even larger than he remembered from his youth, seemingly unnaturally so. He advanced slowly, peering into the shadows which would not retreat from his lantern light. In the distance, a few points of candle light hung motionless and eerie in the void of blackness.
Soon he realized the night was no longer silent. In the distance he could the faintest of sounds. Wet, rhythmic sounds that reminded him of flesh and sweat. Perhaps he was imagining it. Perhaps not. He wasn't sure which would be worse. He realized that he had not moved in several breaths and forced his feet to move again.
The candles seemed to be held aloft by statues, marking the walkway between the columns at odd intervals. Steeping away from the center of the path, he peered closer and realized they weren't statues at all. At each point of floating light, a woman was bound to a column and held in place by heavy chains. She was upside down, her back pressed against the stone and her legs and arms wrapping around behind her.
A thick red candle had been firmly inserted into her vagina. As her body trembled, so did the bobbing light. Hot liquid wax dripped down the candle length, burning its way between her labia, over her clitoris and down along her stomach. Some of the wax had made it as far as her hanging breasts and red trails began to circle her nipples. Her lower regions were smoothly shaved, allowing the wax to flow and run freely. Given the amount of wax decorating her body, the candle must have been quite prodigious. Or, simply changed regularly. Both thoughts were disconcerting.
He realized that despite her relative stillness, she was awake and looking at him. Her mouth twisted slightly in a silent, inverted grimace of pleasure. Her eyes locked pleadingly on his and as he took in her nude form he realized he was growing hard. He tore his eyes away from her and closed them tightly. He was breathing hard. He shook his head to clear away the intrusive thoughts but the sounds of wetness were ever present.
Two more candles marked the way. Then, if his memories from long ago were true, he would arrive at the central altar platform. There he expected he would find his goal. The foulness. The thing which he had come to kill. He could not be stopped or dissuaded. He could not afford to lose himself to the taint or perversion that had made its home in this place.
He continued onward. Each step was slow and heavy, with a long period of breathing in between. As he approached the next hanging candle, a dark curiosity burned within him. He had no desire to peer into that darkness or see what it held. But as much as he tried to fix his eyes directly ahead, they were inevitably drawn aside.
This one was not so bad, he assured himself. He could not see into her eyes or see her face. This woman was like the other, bound upside down. She hugged the column, her body wrapped around it and her back to him. A thick red candle was fixed into her upright anus, spreading the hole wide. Surely an object of that width must have hurt exceptionally. He could not imagine such as thing. It must have been nearly the size of a man's wrist.
Other than a small crimson pool at the base of the candle where it entered her, there was no sign of dripping wax. He suspected it was much the same as the previous woman, and it had burned its way down her front. He was possessed by a sudden urge to investigate further, to see what shapes the wax had made on her naked flesh, but turned away before it became irresistible.
He moved past the silent candle bearer. The noises in the distance were subtly louder. There was a long whisper of breath, as if a woman was exhaling. He was nearly there. He would cleanse this place. He would set things right, and take his revenge.
One candle remained. He approached, making no attempt to look away. The candle light bobbed, more vigorously than the others. A third woman was bound here, facing him like the first. However, her legs were chained upright and spread wide, her body roughly making the shape of an inverted star. Her body was slightly bent, her buttocks and shoulders pressing against the column which held her weight.
She also held a candle in her vagina, but hers burned much lower than the others. The flame danced only inches away from her delicate skin. As she shivered, a large glob of wax fell from the candle, landing directly between her open labia. It sizzled slightly against her flesh. He watched as it slowly flowed down her opening and rolled over her engorged clitoris, sending her into greater fits of trembling against her bondage.
In his little experience with women, he had never seen a clitoris so swollen, so begging for release. The throbbing button seemed to be thrust into the cold air. A monument to her desire, and her need. He wanted to reach out and touch it, stroke it. Taste it. Her nipples were likewise erect, and droplets of sweat ran down her full breasts to drip from them. Despite the darkness, her body was covered in wetness and seemed to shimmer with golden light.
His eyes drifted further down her body, and he saw that she was gagged. Her mouth was stuffed full of cloth, tied around her head, preventing her from making any sound. Her eyes met his, and within them he could see her desperation. They were filled with their own sort of dancing light that seemed to come from within. A primal, wild, need. She looked at him, and begged him with her eyes. He could undo the chains. Remove the candle and replace it with his fingers, as he explored her body.
In his mind, the long feminine exhale came again. He could hear the sound she made as his young manhood entered her body. The reflections of candle light on her buttocks as he pulled her back against him, to better fill her.
Or, she begged him, simply tear away that cloth gag. She was utterly helpless. It would take only the barest of moments to fill her mouth with his cock. No one would ever know, in the darkness. She was a nameless thing, who was she to tell anyone? Her eyes told him, and he knew it without doubt to be true, that her lips would hungrily milk him, and it would be absolute bliss to feel the pumping of his hot seed into her mouth.
Surely, he deserved that. Surely, there was no harm in it.
He realized that he had no free hands to undo his clothing with, and knelt to place his sword and lantern on the ground. As his eyes broke away from hers, some of the cold and darkness crept back into his body like a shock of cold water.
He knelt on the cold stone floor for a long moment gathering his thoughts and steeling himself. He realized there was a dampness in his crotch. He was beginning to understand. To see the truth. Of how so many had failed before him. Of how powerful this darkness was, and how tempting.
